


I'm half doomed and you're semi-sweet

by 1001cranes



Series: WIP Amnesty [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Incest, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You’re my favorite,” Peter murmurs into the curve of Derek’s bite-warmed throat, saccharine and a little sarcastic, meaning it but unable to be truly sincere. “Don’t worry about the twins.”</p><p>“I’m not worried,” Derek says. His voice is rough and his pulse is wild. “I’m family.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm half doomed and you're semi-sweet

**Author's Note:**

> _Anonymous asked: Sometimes you just got to stop and think about super rich!peter and his kept boys stiles and derek_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I like the way you think, nonny, and this… turned into a thing. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Part One is mostly Derek/Peter, Part Two is forthcoming and will be Derek/Peter/Stiles~~
> 
>  
> 
> LIES. uh, I’m pretty off my Teen Wolf Game, so. 4.5k of solid Derek/Peter, and then whatever Derek/Peter/Stiles bits I’d already written. yay WIP amnesty.

It happens accidentally.

When Derek gets into CCA’s Architecture Program, Talia asks Peter to take him around the city. “And could you help him find some place to stay?” she asks. “You know the local packs far better than I do. I wouldn’t want to step on any toes.”

Her flattery, as obvious as it might be, isn’t misplaced. Neither is her concern. While cities are less territorial than enclaves like Beacon Hills, there are still places Derek shouldn’t nest. There’s certainly no way in hell Derek can live on campus.  Werewolves are meant to live in groups, but not groups of smelly, stressed-out teenage strangers. It’s a recipe for a nervous breakdown.

“He can live with me,” Peter sighs. He’s never been particularly familial, but he’s not going to let Derek live in some dumpy studio on the fringes of town and inhale meth fumes for $2500 a month while Peter lives in high rise bliss. “At least this first year, if you don’t mind temporarily surrendering him to another Alpha.”

Peter won’t pretend his motives are entirely pure: it would be nice to have another wolf around. One at least nominally his.

“Wonderful!” Talia says, brisk, “just wonderful!” and Peter suspects his older sister of having planned this all along.

* * *

Derek moves in a month before classes start, in late July.

“You’re bigger than I remember,” Peter says. He hasn’t seen Derek in years, because Beacon Hills and the Nemeton give him the supernatural equivalent of a rash, and Talia hates the city. Peter likes to think of Talia are a country mouse with claws, and himself as a city mouse with the heart of a psychopath. Now that Peter is an Alpha in his own right, they tend to avoid chances for face-to-face contact.

Instead of rolling his eyes or making some sarcastic comment - what Peter does remember of Derek falls squarely into ‘bratty kid’ - Derek flushes and ducks his head before running back downstairs to bring up more boxes.

* * *

The handover is quick and simple. It’s temporary, for one thing; and passing a son over to live with his uncle is far less fraught than letting your daughter join a pack in Connecticut because she wants to go to Yale. An inbred blue-blood pack that hadn’t bitten anyone in a good century, no less. Why Laura couldn’t find an acceptable college in California is beyond anyone’s reckoning.

Still, the ceremony is not unlike a marriage, Peter muses. Derek, do you; Peter, do you. Which makes a lot of sense, considering marriages have roots in the conference of property. Betas are not far from property, in a certain light.

Talia’s teeth rest gently on the tendon of Derek’s neck; Peter bites in until blood springs to the surface and a bruise momentarily appears. Derek rubs at his neck and scowls while Talia claps her hands together.

“Well!” she says. “Glad that’s taken care of.”

* * *

Peter insists on taking Derek out to dinner that night. The place he chooses is maybe a touch too fancy for the occasion and for the henley Derek is wearing, but Peter likes the food. He and Derek order four entrees between them, because werewolf appetites are nothing to scoff at, and when Peter only finishes half of his second, he pushes the plate toward Derek.

“What?” he says, when Derek’s eyes grow wide. “I’m not going to bring it home. Finish it or don’t,” and Derek tentatively sticks his fork in what’s left of Peter’s potatoes Romanoff like he expects to get hit.

“You’ve got to stop looking at my like I’m going to beat you,” Peter says, after he’s paid the check and they’re safely ensconced in the privacy of Peter’s car. “It puts a certain damper on having dinner in public.”

“Sorry,” Derek says. He sounds appropriately contrite, and maybe a touch sheepish.

“What has Talia been telling you?” Peter muses. “If this about the mountain ash in her prom shoes, she needs to let it go. I still maintain my innocence.”

“You’re just. You’re not how I remembered.”

“Well, the last time I saw you I think I was hungover.” Peter would have been - oh, twenty, probably, and chafing under Talia’s rules. Bristling at checking in with another Alpha in a city where he was practically an omega anyway. It had been a terrible time in his life, but it had given him direction. Purpose. “Wolfsbane infused tequila is not something to play around with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derek says, after a pause, and when they get home he disappears into his room.

* * *

This pattern continues for a few weeks - Derek going to classes and coming home to study, Peter taking him out to dinner when he gets the chance, or bringing home takeout and dragging to the dinner table, Derek quietly disappearing into his room. Derek slowly stops smelling like surprise every time Peter gives him something or does something half-way nice, but what he starts to smell like instead is harder to put a finger on.

It’s not arousal. Not exactly. Not the sharp spike of excitement, or the low-grade rumble of attraction, or even the foggy, musk cloud that sex casts over everything. It’s darker, or more pointed, or more clean. He’s taken to putting his hand on the nape of Derek’s neck, throwing his arm around Derek’s shoulders, slapping Derek on the back, just for the spike of surprise and the little buzz of contentment and that smell.

Peter doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he likes it.

* * *

“We’re going clubbing,” Peter declares. “It’s a Friday night, you’re not allowed to say no. Alpha’s orders.”

Derek’s mouth clicks open and shut.

“It’s pack bonding,” Peter continues. “It’s a pack emergency.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says, but it’s weak at best. Peter feels the tug of something through their bond, but it’s hard to say exactly what. “I have a paper due.”

“When, next week?” Derek is irritatingly responsible. He studies, he does his work, he occasionally texts a classmate or two about their assignments. He spends an hour in the gym every morning. He isn’t quite so boring as to go straight to class and straight home, but he hasn’t come back to the apartment smelling of alcohol or drugs or sex, which more or less means he’s squandering his college years, as far as Peter is concerned.

Peter pulls a sad face. “Spend some time with your Uncle Peter. The club we’re going to serves wolfsbane tequila - you might even get some embarrassing stories about your mother out of me.”

“I don’t need wolfsbane tequila for that,” Derek mutters, but there’s a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

* * *

“No,” Peter says firmly. He takes Derek by the shoulders and pushes him back towards his room. “We can do better.”

“I look fine!”

“Your half-hearted protest is noted.” Derek always looks fine - the benefits of being young, beautiful, and having shoulders half as broad as a barn door that only appear to be growing - but they can certainly do better than fine. “You have to have a tighter shirt than that.” Or at least one with shorter sleeves.

Derek crosses his arms.

“I could go get one of my shirts,” Peter casually offers, and Derek makes a noise like a shot before fumbling around in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

“You’re a monster,” Derek mutters, and he sheds his first shirt and puts on the second so quickly Peter almost misses the triskelion inked into the middle of his back.

Huh.

“Does your mother know you have that?” Peter asks, casually, and Derek turns around to give him a raised eyebrow so pointed Peter momentarily feels proud. “Don’t worry. Our little secret.”

“Wouldn’t want her thinking you’re a bad influence,” Derek says, flatly, and Peter can’t help smirking again. He likes the asshole Derek who gets goaded out now and again.

“Much better,” he declares. This shirt is tight on Derek’s arms and chest, and when he crosses his arms the front lifts. There’s a chance someone might get to see those abs. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Peter isn’t too old to go clubbing, exactly, but showing up at his favorite place with a hot younger man does give a certain impression. Peter decides to take the Aston Martin just to hammer the point home, because he’s never been able to resist a good cliche. Derek gives him a look like he knows exactly what Peter is up to, but there’s another one of those smiles hiding on his face when Peter puts his werewolf reflexes to good use, zipping in and out of traffic.

They get to the club a bit before peak time, but since Derek is a little old man who will probably make Peter leave early, he’s working with what he’s got. Peter flashes his eyes at the bouncer, and they’re into Lilith in record time.

“Lilith?” Derek hisses into Peter’s ear. “Really.”

Peter turns his head so they’re nearly nose to nose. Not strictly necessary, perhaps, but even enhanced werewolf hearing isn’t great when there’s so much background noise to deal with. “The owner’s a succubus. Remember that wolfsbane infused tequila I warned you about?”

Derek makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan, but he follows Peter to the bar.

“Two shots of tequila,” Peter says, and flashes his eyes at their bartender. The wolfsbane-infused tequila is on the bar nearly before Peter can blink. The bartender is some stripe of supernatural - he smells like cold, even in the sweaty, smoky heat of the bar, and he’s more than quick enough to keep up with the crowd.

“Cheers,” Peter says, shoving one of the shots at Derek and clinking the glass together.

* * *

Getting Derek onto the dance floor takes more work, and even more tequila, but Peter is very determined. Derek is dancing by midnight, loose and flushed and a little tipsy, obviously the type to be too self-conscious about it otherwise.

“More tequila,” Peter not-quite-yells, in his ear, and Derek nods eagerly, sweet and puppyish.

The same bartender is there, and he has two more shots set out for them before Peter can ask. The generous tip Peter leaves disappears as quickly as the tequila appeared, and Peter makes a mental note to try and find out what the bartender actually is at some point; speed like that could certainly come in handy.

The club is packed, and the bar is shoulder to shoulder. Derek is pressed against Peter’s side, the two of them faintly damp with sweat, stinking with the mingled smells of a hundred people and their emotions, not to mention their alcohol choices. Derek rests his head on Peter’s shoulder for a moment, even though he’s an inch or two taller, and Peter feels a rush of affection push through their bond in a way he never had before.

His lovely boy. Peter is almost overcome with pride, and possession, and fine, yes, a little good old-fashioned lust. His nephew is handsome, and Peter doesn’t mind the challenge of trying to draw him out of his shell. He thought Derek was shy initially, a bit reserved, maybe even a stick in the mud, but it seems like Derek might be a bit of a secret diva instead - making a production of putting his foot down but ultimately wanting to be coaxed into things. Wanting to think people care.

He is the middle child, Peter reminds himself, and a quiet one at that. Cora was always a terror, and Laura was so headstrong, constantly clashing with Talia and the other elders and her teachers and anyone else who got in her way, it’s no surprise Derek faded into the woodwork. Squeaky wheels get the grease, after all, and Peter would know - he’s spent his life being a very squeaky wheel.

The whole night is going fantastically, so when a familiar arm twines and Peter actually feels Derek’s hackles go up, he can’t even be surprised. There’s always a fly in the ointment somewhere.

“Aiden,” Peter says, because telling the twins apart is easy as pie if you have a lick of sense. “Ethan.”

The two of them dart in to press their faces against his. It’s not a kiss as most people would understand it. To the rest of the bar, it maybe looks like they’re darting in to say hello, yelling over the music. To Derek, it looks as damning as it is; an Alpha letting other werewolves so close to his throat.

“Derek,” Peter says, keeping his tone as light as he can. “This is Aiden and Ethan. Your fellow betas.”

The wave of feeling coming off of Derek is almost overpowering. Anger, humiliation, embarrassment. It’s enough to sober Peter up, if he thought for a second this would be amusing.

Peter rests his one hand on Ethan’s face for a moment. “Why don’t you go enjoy yourselves, boys.”

Ethan’s smile is knowing. Toothy. “Sure, Alpha.” He and Aiden melt seamlessly into the crowd, and Peter puts his hand on the back of Derek’s neck even as Derek’s pulse jumps, and he seems to squash the urge to try and jump away.

Time for damage control.

“Let’s go outside,” Peter says. Derek nods stiffly, and Peter grabs a hold of Derek’s wrist and yanks him towards one of the side doors. It leads to an alleyway, which is none too clean and already smells of sexual assignations, but at least it affords some measure of privacy.

“I thought I was your only beta,” Derek says, plaintively, and then looks horrified at himself. Peter would laugh if he didn’t think Derek would run off. “You never mentioned them before, I - how many betas for you have?”

“Wellllll,” Peter drags the word out, like he needs time to do the math, because frankly his asshole streak runs deep. “There’s the twins. And there’s you. And that’s it.”

Derek stills. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Derek smells like relief, and embarrassment, and shame, and it makes Peter want to put his teeth in Derek’s neck.

“Sorry,” Derek says. “I–”

The scent thickens, and Peter feels his fangs lengthen in his mouth. He decides to go with his impulse. Politeness and small gestures haven’t helped so far. Maybe what they need is a little more base, a little more animal.

His teeth are barely sharper than a humans, maybe only a touch too long; he bites, hard, and he pushes Derek up against the wall when he does it. It probably looks like just about what it is from the outside and Peter doesn’t give a damn. Derek makes a noise like he’s in pain, and that smell that Peter can’t pin down comes off him in waves alongside arousal.

“You’re my favorite,” Peter murmurs into the curve of Derek’s bite-warmed throat, saccharine and a little sarcastic, meaning it but unable to be truly sincere. “Don’t worry about the twins.”

“I’m not worried,” Derek says. His voice is rough and his pulse is wild. “I’m family.”

“A Hale.” Even Peter has had occasion to be proud of that. One of the oldest and longest established packs in America, forget the West Coast, and roots back to Gévaudan. “Let’s go home.” He feels only a little foolish after all this - sue him for not immediately jumping to the conclusion that his nephew wanted to jump his bones. Or maybe Derek didn’t know it himself; he certainly seems the type to repress.

He keeps his hand on the small of Derek’s back as they walk.

* * *

The ride home is tense and anticipatory and goes screamingly fast. Getting back home without a ticket or a high speed chase is an insane matter of luck. Peter’s right hand keeps sliding over Derek’s knee, his thigh, thumbing over the pulse in his neck, scraping his nails through the hair on the back of Derek’s neck; Derek lists towards Peter until he’s half out of his seat, his head on Peter’s shoulder, breathing in Peter’s scent.

“Good boy,” Peter says, as they stumble out of the car and into the elevator, into their apartment. “So good,” he says, “so good for me, sweetheart,” and the bond between them thrums like a living thing.

Derek is shoved up against the wall of the entryway and held there, squirming. Peter is a few inches shorter than Derek, lankier and not nearly as muscled, but he is the Alpha, and when he puts his teeth to Derek’s pulse and growls, Derek stills.

“Good boy,” Peter says again, so overcome with the smell of Derek, the small taste of him that Peter keeps rolling over in his mouth, that all his eloquence has gone out the window. “My good boy.”

Derek has gone so pliant that dragging him back to Peter’s bedroom becomes almost difficult.

 

 

“Oh,” Peter sighs. “I can’t wait to knot you, sweetheart,” and all of Derek’s breath snaps out like he’s been gut-punched.

If he were in bed with a human, this would probably be where Peter went to grab a washcloth from the bathroom. Not with Derek. Not with a werewolf. It means something to leave your scent all over someone like this, however unfortunate things might become in the morning.

| |

Derek sleeps curled into a little ball, small and tight and cut off from the rest of the world. Peter finds himself drawing up his knees to tuck them against Derek’s, curling one arm around Derek’s waist, pushing his face into the twisted crook of Derek’s neck while Derek mashes his face into the pillow. 

 

* * *

 

“We need to talk about the twins,” Peter declares.

Derek’s nose wrinkles.

“Now, now,” Peter says. He had sense enough to leave a bit of time between their morning after and this talk, but it still has to happen. “Don’t be like that about your packmates,” he admonishes, and has the guilty pleasure of watching Derek’s face turns distinctly sour.

“I just found out I  _had_  packmates,” Derek protests. “I’ve been here for months, and I’ve never even seen them.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “They stop by when they need something, or I meet them for brunch sometimes. They certainly don’t have the type of relationship we have.” Peter honestly hasn’t even fucked them; Aiden is straight, for one. “There’s no need to be jealous.”

Derek bristles. “I’m not  _jealous_ –”

“I didn’t turn them, Derek,” Peter continues gently. “They were omegas. Their Alpha was an abusive asshole, by all accounts, and when he died they didn’t stick around to find out who had replaced him.”

Derek relents, a little, his eyebrow unfurling. “They were alone?” he asks, hesitantly. For werewolves with packs, omegas are objects of scorn, pity, and horror all at once - a werewolf without a pack was considered unnatural, and considering omegas so often went feral, no wonder.

“Oh yes,” Peter says. Which was a shame and a half, really. The twins had a number of talents, as it turned out, but Derek wasn’t in the mood to hear any of that. “They had each other, of course, but no Alpha. No other family. They moved to the city and flew under the radar for a while, but when I became Alpha, I offered them a place in my pack.” By nature, cities were less territorial than places like Beacon Hills, where an omega would have been been run off almost immediately, if not killed outright. Peter appreciates survival instinct.

He reaches out to scrape his fingernails through the hair on the back of Derek’s neck. “It’s nice to have betas. I assume its nice for them to have an Alpha again. That’s all.”

“Sorry,” Derek says shortly. “I shouldn’t have –”

“Had feelings?”

“I’m not good with them,” Derek continues. “Feelings, or other people.”

“I noticed,” Peter says, because hey, you can’t improve if people aren’t honest with you. “Don’t worry. We’ll just get you a little more experience with both.”

Derek turns far enough in his chair to push his face against Peter’s arm.

“Come back to bed,” Peter says.

| |

Peter is smart enough to start small. He takes Derek out to dinner. When he goes out for a morning run he brings home pastries. He gradually coaxes Derek into sleeping in Peter’s room, even when they don’t have sex first, and they have sex  _a lot_. Peter buys Derek new clothes, soft and mutedly colored and expensive, and he slips them into Derek’s closet and dresser and carefully throws others out. Then a nice watch, better shoes. A new laptop, a home computer with every drafting program Derek would ever possibly need. He sends Derek home for Christmas loaded with presents for the rest of the family, well-fucked, with still healing bite marks and scratches on his body. He likes the way Derek flushes when he finds each new thing, the darting looks he sends to Peter and around the rest of the apartment, as if to make sure there’s no one else here Peter is trying to spoil.

The tipping point comes when Peter talks about getting Derek a car.

“Probably something more environmentally conscious,” Peter muses out loud. “No need to have all the other college students try and kill you over the carbon emissions–”

“Peter,” Derek says, “You can’t buy me a  _car_.”

“Why not?”

“Because - first, I don’t  _need_ a car–”

“Who cares about need?” Peter interrupts. “I want to buy you a car. Do you want a car?” Derek pets the Aston a little too longingly to ever convincingly deny that charge. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, which is usually a sign Peter is winning an argument. Although Derek has been getting a bit better at derailing them by using sex.

“Baby,” he says, because he likes the way Derek’s pulse rockets when he does. “Baby, I have more money than I could probably spend in a lifetime. Did your mom every take you down into the vault?”

Derek hesitantly nods.

“Part of that was once mine, and I made even more with it. Let me worry about the money. Let me worry about all the _stuff_.”

There’s an even longer pause where Derek looks like he’s struggling to come up with something to say.

“Stop bothering your Alpha,” Peter says. “Let me spoil you.”

* * *

Peter buys Derek a black Camaro, and Derek utterly fails at trying to hide his delight.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Peter says. “You can drive.”

Mrs. Van Allen, who lives two doors down from Peter and is the terror of the San Francisco art world, congratulates Peter on “finally making that boy happy.”

“Thank you?” Peter says 

 

* * *

“I got an internship for the summer,” Derek says, casually. Or faux-casually, really, considering how fast his heart is beating.

 

 

 

* * *

When Derek is a junior, he finally makes a friend.

Peter comes home from work and pauses at the door when realizes he’s hearing two heartbeats in the apartment.

That’s unprecedented.

 

“Peter, this is Stiles,” Derek says. “He’s from Beacon Hills too,” and Peter reads between the lines.  _Talia_. Matchmaking, or this Stiles boy needs a friend, or both. And while he doesn’t smell supernatural, there are a number of species that are well hidden in their human form.  Peter  _still_ hasn’t figured out the bartender at Lilith’s.

“Well,” Peter says. “I guess we should stick together, hmm?” They’ll be more time to investigate later.

“Sure,” Stiles says, off-hand, and gives a little wave. “Nice place.”

Peter snorts. “Thanks. Thai for dinner?” he asks, and Derek nods. “Stiles, what do you like?”

“No, that’s okay, I don’t think we’ll be much longer –”

“Don’t be silly,” Peter says. Stiles looks like the kind of boy who lives on ramen and Red Bull. Smells like tired and sugar. “I have to order half the restaurant to feed Derek, what’s another plate?”

“Uhm. Just pad thai?”

“Sure,” Peter says, and pulls out his phone as he heads into the other room.

* * *

 

 

 

 

he runs one hand over the back of Derek’s neck, and Stiles raises an eyebrow before schooling his face into something more neutral. Not a fool, then.

 

* * *

“Human?” Peter asks.

Derek pauses. “He’s the Sheriff’s son.”

“What a delightful non-answer.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I think he’s human. If he isn’t, I don’t think he knows it.”

Hmm. Well, just because his mother had a touch of the witch about her doesn’t mean Stiles does.

* * *

Surprisingly, Stiles becomes something of a fixture in their apartment. Derek takes a liking to him, even though he still barely tolerates the twins.

Peter doesn’t hate Stiles. He makes Derek happy, and makes Derek take him to concerts

 

* * *

“He  _is_  actually my uncle,” he hears Derek say wryly.

“I  _know_.”

“My mother’s brother?” Derek says, stretching it out. If you didn’t know Derek it would sound mean, but he’s really very amused. 

“Okay, okay, I get it, fine.” Stiles sounds embarrassed. “You just… I don’t know, you don’t act the way I thought an uncle and nephew would.”

For a few moments Peter can only hear the rustling of pages.

“Then again, I don’t have any uncles, so. I probably shouldn’t base all familial relationships on the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”

“….At least I get to be Will Smith in this scenario?” Derek says, and Stiles laughs.

* * *

 

Things come to head towards the end of the year, when Stiles fails to lottery into one of the school apartments. 

“Ughhhhh,” he moans. “Do you know how much real estate _costs_  in this city?”

Peter snorts.

“Okay  _fine_ , Scrooge McDuck, we all know you’re rolling in it. But I’m going to have to take out more loans! And probably still live in squalor, ugh.” He looks at though he’s trying to smother himself with one of the couch pillows.

“So move in here,” Peter says, off-hand, and next to him Derek goes very, very still.

Stiles laughs, and pulls the pillow off his face. Then he stills. “I. What. Seriously?”

“Seriously. We’ve got extra bedrooms. And I’m pretty sure Derek hasn’t bought anything more expensive than a pack of gum in the past two years.”

“I bought a PS4!” 

Peter rolls his eyes. 

 

* * *

“He could be pack,” Derek says quietly.

If Peter had been waiting for a sign that Derek was truly his and not Talia’s, this was it.

“He could be,” Peter says. “He could be, baby.”

* * *

“You know,” Peter says the next morning, over breakfast. “Just to be clear, we don’t have to make Stiles a part of this pack for you to bone him.”

Derek looks  _scandalized_.

“Or vice versa,” Peter adds, just to watch Derek’s face go purple. 

**Author's Note:**

> chances of continuing: pretty close to nil


End file.
